Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

At three-thirty the Speaker rose from his chair and told a packed house that the Minister of State for Defense wished to make a personal statement.

Simon Kerslake rose warily from the front bench and stood nervously at the dispatch box.

“Mr. Speaker,” he began. “With your permission and that of the House I would like to make a personal statement. During a question put to me yesterday I impugned the integrity of the Right Honorable Gentleman, the member for Leeds North. It has since been brought to my attention that I did him a gross injustice and I offer the House my sincere apologies, and the Right Honorable Gentleman the assurances that I will not question his integrity a third time.”

While younger members were puzzled by the reference, Raymond smiled to himself.

Aware of how rare personal statements were in anyone’s parliamentary career, members looked on eagerly to see how he would respond.

He moved slowly to the dispatch box.

“Mr. Speaker, I accept the gracious manner in which the Right Honorable Gentleman has apologized and hope that he will not lose sight of the greater issue, namely that of war widows’ benefits, and in particular the plight of Mrs. Dora Benson.”

Simon looked relieved and nodded courteously.

Many Opposition members told Raymond he should have gone for Simon when he had him on the run, while Tom Carson continued shouting at Simon long after the House had proceeded to the next business. The Times leader writer proved them wrong when he wrote the next morning: “In an age of militant demands from the left, Parliament and the Labour party have found a new Clement Attlee on their front bench. Britain need have no fear for human dignity or the rights of man should Raymond Gould ever accede to the high office which that gentleman held.”

When Raymond returned home from the Commons that night he found Joyce had cut out all the press comments for him to study and had also somehow managed to make inroads into his overflowing correspondence.

Joyce turned out to have a better feel for gut politics than the entire Shadow Cabinet put together.

Alec Pimkin threw a party for all his Tory colleagues who had entered the House in 1964, “To celebrate the first twenty years in the Commons,” as he described the occasion in an impromptu after-dinner speech.

Over brandy and cigars the corpulent, balding figure sat back and surveyed his fellow members. Many had fallen by the wayside over the years, but of those that were left, he believed only two men now dominated the intake.

Pimkin’s eyes first settled on his old friend Charles Seymour. Despite studying him closely he was still unable to spot a gray hair on the Treasury minister’s head. From time to time Pimkin still saw Amanda, who had returned to being a full-time model and was rarely to be found in England nowadays. Charles, he suspected, saw more of her on the covers of magazines than he ever did in his home at Eaton Square. Pimkin had been surprised by how much time Charles was willing to put aside for little Harry. Charles was the last man he would have suspected of ending up a doting father. Certainly there was no sign of his ambitions diminishing, and Pimkin suspected that only one man remained a worthy rival for the party leadership.

His eyes moved on to someone for whom in 1984 Orwell’s big brother seemed to hold no fears. Simon Kerslake was deep in animated conversation about his work on the proposed disarmament talks between Thatcher, Gorbachev, and Reagan. Pimkin studied the Defense minister intently. He considered that had he been graced with such looks he would not have had to fear for his dwindling majority. Rumors of some financial crisis had long since died away, and Kerslake now seemed well set for a formidable future.

The party began to break up, as one by one his contemporaries came over to thank him for such a “splendid,” “memorable,” “worthwhile” evening. When the last one had departed and Pimkin found himself alone he drained the drop of brandy that remained in his balloon and stubbed out the dying cigar. He sighed as he speculated on the fact that he could now never hope to be made a minister. He therefore determined to become a kingmaker, for in another twenty years there would be nothing left on which to speculate.

Raymond celebrated his twenty years in the House by taking Joyce to the Guinea Restaurant off Berkeley Square for dinner. He admired the long burgundy dress his wife had chosen for the occasion and even noticed that one or two women gave it more than a casual glance throughout their meal.

He too reflected on his twenty years in the Commons, and he told Joyce over a brandy that he hoped he would spend more of the next twenty years in Government. 1984 had not turned out to be a good year for the Conservatives, and Raymond was already forming plans to make 1985 as uncomfortable for the Government as possible.

A few weeks later Tony Benn, who had lost his seat at the general election, returned to the House of Commons as the member for Chesterfield. The Conservatives came a poor third and went on to lose two more by-elections early in 1985. Even the press began to acknowledge that the Labour party was once again looking like a serious alternative Government.

The winter of 1985 brought a further rise in the unemployment figures which only increased the Labour party’s lead in the polls. And then after the resignation of two cabinet ministers over a small helicopter company in the West Country and the loss of two further by-elections, the Conservatives fell into third place for the first time in five years.

A drop in the price of oil from $22 to $10 a barrel in the space of six weeks did not help the Chancellor’s budget judgment. After a long, hot summer Mrs. Thatcher decided on a further cabinet reshuffle bringing in those who would be formulating policy in the run-up to the general election. The average age of the cabinet fell by seven years and the press dubbed it, “Mrs. Thatcher’s new lamps for old reshuffle.”

Andrew was on his way to the House of Commons when he heard the first reports on his car radio. There had been no mention of the news in the morning papers so it must have happened overnight. It began with a news flash: just the bare details. HMS Broadsword, one of the Navy’s destroyers, had been passing through the Gulf of Surt between Tunis and Benghazi when she was boarded by a group of mercenaries, posing as coast guard officials, who took over the ship in the name of Colonel Gaddafi. The newscaster went on to say that there would be a more detailed report in their ten o’clock bulletin.

Andrew had reached his room in the House of Commons by nine-thirty, and he immediately phoned the SDP leader David Owen to discuss the political implications of the news. Once a course of action had been agreed on Andrew took a handwritten letter round to the Speaker’s office before the noon deadline, requesting an emergency debate following question time that afternoon. He also sent a copy of the letter by messenger to the Foreign Secretary and the Secretary of State for Defense.

By staying near a radio most of the morning Andrew was able to learn that HMS Broadsword was now in the hands of over a hundred guerillas. They were demanding the freedom of all Libyan prisoners in British jails in exchange for the 217-strong crew of the Broadsword , who were being held hostage in the engine room.

By twelve o’clock the ticker-tape machine in the Members’ Corridor was hovered over by craning necks, and the dining rooms were so full that many members had to go without lunch.

Question time that day had been allocated to Welsh Affairs, so the Chamber itself did not start filling up until nearly three-fifteen although the Palace of Westminster was already packed and buzzing with each new snippet of information. Political correspondents waited hawklike in the Members’ Lobby seeking opinions on the crisis from any senior politicians as they passed to and from the Chamber. Few were rash enough to say anything that might be reinterpreted the next day.